


Fear and Self Loathing

by ChameleonCircuit



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Rhodestead - Freeform, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 02:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChameleonCircuit/pseuds/ChameleonCircuit
Summary: It’s not the first time he’s given himself over to that part of himself, washed it away with alcohol, but even alcohol can’t drown the self-loathing, and tonight, with a stranger’s hand down his pants, calloused fingertips working expertly, he knew he couldn’t keep doing this. He knew he couldn’t keep lying to himself about who he was, about who he loved, always hiding in the shadows, hiding behind a bottle, hiding behind a fake name in a bar no one would find him in.





	Fear and Self Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a mess and for that I can only apologise. Will is a mess.
> 
> https://sofuckingchuffed.tumblr.com/post/185599112202/its-not-too-late-rhodestead

Will feels an odd sense of disconnect, of detachment, as he walks. He’s distantly aware of the snow clinging to his hair and the wind kissing his cheeks, turning his nose numb, but it feels so far away, like it’s happening to somebody else and he’s just watching from a distance. He knows he should be cold, arms bare with only a t-shirt covering his torso, but he can’t feel it, not really.

It’s not until he’s standing outside Connor’s apartment that he makes a conscious thought, and everything comes rushing back into focus. His body shakes, from the cold, or from fear, he’s not really sure, but he can already feel that uncomfortable lump of emotion forming in his throat, and, not for the first time, he wishes he’d just gone straight home from the hospital instead of drowning his sorrows in expensive liquor paid for by rich men who all wanted their share of Will Halstead.

It’s not the first time he’s given himself over to that part of himself, washed it away with alcohol, but even alcohol can’t drown the self-loathing, and tonight, with a stranger’s hand down his pants, calloused fingertips working expertly, he knew he couldn’t keep doing this. He knew he couldn’t keep lying to himself about who he was, about who he loved, always hiding in the shadows, hiding behind a bottle, hiding behind a fake name in a bar no one would find him in.

It’s far too late at night to ring the doorbell, even if he had the courage to, but there’s a longing lodged in his chest all the same, snug alongside his too-fast heart.

He’s not sure why his subconscious brought him here, why his subconscious has more bravery than he’s ever consciously held in his entire life. All he knows is he can’t. He can’t face that. Not now. Likely not ever.

He wraps his arms around himself, turning away from Connor’s building, a deep sadness welling inside him at the thought if what could be, what could have been, if only he’d had the courage to say yes instead of hiding behind a no.

“Will?” Connor’s voice sounds from behind him, and slowly, Will turns to look, swallowing hard. “What are you— it’s freezing, where’s your coat?”

As if on cue, a violent shiver runs right through Will’s body, and he wraps his arms even tighter around himself.

“Not sure,” he admits with a shrug, not quite meeting Connor’s gaze.

Connor doesn’t say anything else, he just removes his own coat as he walks over to Will and drapes it over his shoulders before guiding him inside. And Will lets him, because what else can he do? He feels suddenly helpless, incapable of making a decision for himself, and Connor’s warmth is far too nice, far too inviting to refuse.

They’re silent in the elevator to Connor’s penthouse, silent as he steers Will to the lounge, silent even as he makes Will a cup of tea he won’t drink.

“Wanna tell me what’s up?” He eventually asks, smile sympathetic and open as he tilts his head in Will’s direction, always open, always inviting, always sincere.

Will shakes his head then shrugs, gripping the mug in his hands a little bit tighter. He doesn’t even know how to begin to put any of what he’s feeling into words. He’s still processing, still coming to terms with the fact that he wants this, that he wants to want this, that he wants other people to know he wants this, too.

“Okay,” Connor says quietly, clearly unwilling to push. “When you’re ready, I can drive you home.”

Will’s stomach swoops and he shakes his head, staring down at the contents of the mug, and Connor sighs, inching closer until their thighs are pressed together.

“Work with me here,” Connor whispers, leaning far enough into Will’s space that it ought to be uncomfortable. “What’s going on?”

“Two years ago,” Will blurts out without meaning to. He swallows hard, glancing sideways at Connor before turning his attention back to the mug. “Two years ago you asked me out.”

Connor sits back just a little, and Will misses his warmth instantly, another small shiver running down his spine in protest. He sets the mug down, turning with the intention of looking at Connor, but he can’t quite meet his eyes. Still, he can see the light blush dusting Connor’s cheeks and the downturn of his lips, and he feels a simultaneous surge of guilt and affection.

“And you told me you’re not gay,” Connor says, voice tight and reserved.

“I lied,” Will says in a rush, heart rate climbing as his stomach does somersaults. “I don’t know what I am but I lied about how I felt about you. How I feel about you. And after tonight, I thought—“

He breaks off with a sharp, shaky breath, lungs burning for air. He sucks in another breath, then another, trying desperately to stop his head from spinning and his hands from shaking. Connor lays a hand on top of his, thumb brushing across his skin.

“Breathe,” he encourages, voice gentle and sweet, and Will closes his eyes, bowing his head as he fights back the sob working its way up his throat.

“I don’t know,” he croaks out eventually. “I know I’ve missed my chance. I didn’t mean to come here. I know it’s too late and—“

“It’s not too late,” Connor cuts him off, giving his hand a squeeze.

Will lets out a shaky sigh, wrapping his arms around himself again. A part of him wants to go all in, to tell Connor exactly how he feels, that he’s gone ahead and fallen in love over the time they’ve worked together. He wants to tell Connor that he feels like he knows him more than he’s ever known anyone else, that they have a connection he could never have dreamed of. Even when they’re fighting they get each other. But it still scares him too much to put into words, because he’s always told himself and everyone else he’s straight. He’s never allowed himself to even consider that side of himself, let alone explore it.

But the possibility of that door still being open is enough for now, and it feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, even as a new weight takes its place.

“I don’t know how to...be this. With you. I don’t—“

“It’s okay,” Connor assures. “You figure this out on your own terms, no pressure.”

“I want you,” Will croaks, vision clouding with tears.

“You have me, Will,” Connor says softly, voice cracking as he cups Will’s cheek. “You always have.”


End file.
